


something's gotta give

by pyladic



Series: prompts [1]
Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fuck Nikolai Rostov for Hurting Sonya 2kForever, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 16:53:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14794346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyladic/pseuds/pyladic
Summary: Dolokhov receives an unexpected invitation to tea from an old enemy. It does not go...well, exactly.





	something's gotta give

**Author's Note:**

> request from natashalost on the amino: Sonyakhov angst

It's been two years since the failed affair, and in those two years the world has fallen down around him. Anatole, dead at the Battle of Borodino. Helene, dead, probably at her own hand. No one has ever dared say as much in the light of day, but he knows how these things are. They're all saying it behind closed doors and in the shadows. He himself has just returned to Moscow to pack up his things and go. Where he'll go, he isn't sure yet.

So it really makes no sense that Nikolai Rostov should invite him around to his home in Moscow. Nikolai Rostov doesn't like him, hasn't liked him since that infernal card game, and really, Fyodor, what were you thinking, taking all his money like that? It's no wonder the man hates him.

He accepts the invitation. He doesn't care what they think of him. Nikolai, insufferable as he is, had probably been expecting him to decline. It would have been one more thing to hold over his head, to hate him for. Fyodor Dolokhov, ruthless, utterly brutal, and impolite enough not to accept an invitation to be gloated over. Well. They'll just see about that, won't they? There's very little of the ruthless cardsharp still in him, these days.

That Sunday afternoon, he's standing in front of Rostov's door, not quite sure he wants to knock or not, when it swings open and nearly hits him in the face. Dolokhov leaps back just in time, a curse on his lips, ready to be flung at whatever unfortunate servant made him abandon his dignity like this.

"Oh, sir, I'm so sorry!" And Dolokhov barely has time to push down the flicker of irritation and think _that voice sounds familiar_ before he looks up and sees her, and feels all the air leave his lungs in one explosive whoosh. His eyes go wide, and he has to force himself to breathe again.

It's Sonya, looking equally shocked to see him. Her hand comes up to hover in front of her mouth, and she takes a stumbling step back. "What are you doing here?" she asks, low and desperate, and straightens her skirts.

Seeing her again is nothing short of divine punishment. As if he hadn't lost enough already, to have the reminder thrown back in his teeth.

"I was invited." Dolokhov looks her over more closely, trying to stop his heart knocking against his ribs. He'd thought he was done with this. She said no, when he'd asked all those years ago, and he's not the kind of man to ask more than once.

Her clothes are strange. They're vaguely plain, which isn't unfamiliar. Sonya didn't like frills when he knew her last. Why should she now? Strange, though, is how shabby they look. They're ill fitting, the material oddly cheap. Sonya doesn't do cheap. Understated elegance is her byword. And what is she doing here, dressed so oddly?

Sonya takes a breath and gathers herself, and steps aside. "You'd better come in," she says, ushering him through the door. It's another jarring moment, the way she looks down at her feet in deference. The old Sonya never would have done that. She'd be polite, surely, but she'd look him in the eye.

She leads him down the hall to a small parlor, decorated in what he assumes to be the latest style, and motions for him to sit down on the sofa. Sonya folds her hands behind her back and looks down. "May I bring you some tea while you wait?" Her voice sounds odd, without inflection, almost like she's embarrassed.

"That would be fine," Dolokhov says, tinged with a little uncertainty. What's going on here? Something's happened, clearly, in all this time he's been away. But before he can ask any more questions, Sonya's out of the room, and he's left to wait and wonder. Where is Rostov, anyway? Perhaps this invitation is some sort of trick with a sting in the tail, designed to embarrass him whether or not he shows up.

Sonya returns a few minutes later, holding a tea tray. She's still looking down, but there's an apron tied around her waist that wasn't there before. Not quite fitting for a lady of her station, Dolokhov thinks, and frowns. She sets the tea tray down with trembling hands, and reaches for the pot to pour it. The porcelain clatters, and the teacup shatters against the floor, tea spattering his shoes.

She flinches and bites her lip, the shaking moving up to her shoulders, so strong he's afraid she'll drop the teapot as well. Dolokhov stands and puts his hands over her own, steadying them, and she looks up quickly, eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Sonya," he says carefully, trying to be gentle with her, foreign as it is to him, "do you work here? For Nikolai and Mary?"

She nods jerkily, and crouches to look down at the shattered teacup. The tears well up and spill over, and Dolokhov feels an odd pang of sympathy. Poor thing. He digs through his pockets for a handkerchief and hands it to her, forcing a little smile. "Give me your apron," he says, holding out his hand. "I'll clean this up."

Sonya takes it off and hands it to him, staring ahead into space. He sets to work picking up the pieces of shattered porcelain and wiping up the spilled tea, hardly daring to look at her. What's he doing here? What is Nikolai doing, making his childhood sweetheart clean up after his guests, guests he can't be bothered to greet himself?

"He said he was going to marry me," she says quietly, and Dolokhov feels his heart clench uncomfortably. He knows all about men who don't keep their promises.

He's not looking at the pieces of the broken teacup as he picks them up, too focused on the pain in her face, so sharp he can almost taste it, so it shouldn't be a surprise that they slice into his fingers. Dolokhov hisses in a breath and drops them into the apron, about to clench his hands in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but Sonya catches them in her own before he gets the chance. She's looking at them like they're completely unfamiliar, and then she turns her questioning eyes to his face.

Dolokhov freezes up under her gaze. Even after so many years, she still has the power to stop his heart. He's not sure if he loves it or he hates it. Who gave her the right?

He can hardly breathe as she pulls out her own handkerchief, dabbing at his hand gently. She ties it around his hand in a firm knot, and lets go, seeming to realize exactly how close they are. 

He looks down at the handkerchief, fiddling with the edges idly. It's easier than trying to think of something to say. Then Dolokhov frowns down at it. The lacy edges, the embroidery, it's all familiar. Where has he seen this before? "I gave you this," he says, the realization hitting him all at once. He looks up, raising his eyebrows. "It was a courting gift." He'd had no idea she'd even kept it, after she'd refused him.

Sonya flushes red, and she murmurs something unintelligible, wringing her hands helplessly. A smile curls in the corner of his mouth, and Dolokhov tries to push down a rising feeling of delight, and, to his own surprise, of want. It would be so easy to reach out, to pull her close, to -- 

No. He's not going to finish that thought. In fact, he needs to get out of here as soon as possible, before he does anything idiotic. Dolokhov stands abruptly, clenching his hurt hand to his chest. "I should go," he says, with an apologetic look. "Tell Nikolai -- tell him I was called away urgently, I --" He rakes a hand through his hair, wanting to go, but not sure he can.

"Wait a minute," Sonya says, one hand holding him there by the elbow. He turns back to look her in the eye, and she looks almost shy. "You could -- you could come back sometime, and visit, if you wanted. Not Nikolai. You could visit me."

And in that moment, he wants it, wants to live in a world where he can come to visit her, and they can talk like old friends do. But layered on top of that is the knowledge that she doesn't want him, not really. She wants him only in the abstract, as something to break up the endless monotony, to distract her from the pain that's her everyday life. Sonya wants someone. He just happens to be convenient.

Still, what's he going to do? He can't say no, not when she's looking at him like that, hope and fear warring in her expression. He's always done without hesitation the things that are worst for him. Why stop now?

"Alright," Dolokhov says, relenting. "I'll come back. Same time next week." It's a bad idea, he's sure of it, but what's the worst that could happen? He's already lost everything. What more is there to give?


End file.
